


sanctuary for all

by wintervioleteye (hawkguyed)



Series: all aboard to Spookville [1]
Category: Sanctuary (TV), The Avengers (2012)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Clint has no sense of self-preservation, Gen, Level nine hyper accelerated protean lifeforms, Sanctuary-verse, Shamelessly using movie quotes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-03-28
Updated: 2012-03-28
Packaged: 2017-11-02 15:18:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/370435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hawkguyed/pseuds/wintervioleteye
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phil takes three steps to put him within hearing range of the other two thirds of the team SHIELD sends out to retrieve lost, escaped or dangerous Abnormals. (Sanctuary AU).</p>
            </blockquote>





	sanctuary for all

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haipollai](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haipollai/gifts).



> \- Title is from the first episode of Sanctuary.  
> \- Find all the quotes, even the rephrased ones.  
> \- This verse has eaten my soul. And so much moreee. 
> 
> Thank you lucdarling for being my beta, and haipollai for cheering me on throughout this whole venture (and it's not over yet!)

"I need something to work with here, Tony!” 

Clint fires off two more stun shots before ducking behind a pile of crates that shatter into splinters thanks to the tentacles that are now waving around threateningly, occasionally lashing out if one of them pop up from whatever they’ve taken cover behind. 

His earpiece crackles, the technician at the other end working furiously at the console. “I’d like to see you make a radial stunner out of scrapyard parts, wolf-boy!” 

A snarl slips out. Clint might have accepted his nature as a HAP, but it doesn’t mean he has to like being called a werewolf. “If you don’t get this damn thing up and running we’re going to be food for a Sorkel and Tasha’s going to throw you first, so I’d say hurrying up is an option!” 

Beside him, Natasha adds a string of rapid-fire Russian, half of which Clint recognizes as exceedingly obscene curses. She lifts her own stunner and fires blindly over the top of her hiding spot.

The Sorkel emits a sound that’s halfway a roar and a snuffle in response to the latest barrage of sonic stunners.

“And it’s done!” Tony pops up like a jack-in-a-box with a hastily cobbled together device in hand and a triumphant grin on his face. “Catch!” 

The tech draws his arm back and lets the small metal box sail through the air. 

Clint exchanges looks with his hunting partner before darting out of his hiding place. His muzzle emerges from his features as he leaps, claws closing over the device. He’s got mere seconds to set it in range; the tentacles are already reaching for him, one getting far enough to start a loop around his ankle.

“Do it!” 

He’s aware that he’s too close but there isn’t any time to get out of range. Not with the single tentacle already wound tight about his ankle. 

Everything whites out. 

\-- 

Phil Coulson is not impressed. 

It’s not so much the fact that Natasha is securing the limp form of the Sorkel alone (again), but more that Tony is crouched beside a prone figure exhibiting fading signs of a level nine hyper accelerated protean. 

A prone figure that is obviously Clint, judging from the well-worn jacket and messily spiked hair. 

Phil takes three steps to put him within hearing range of the other two thirds of the team SHIELD sends out to retrieve lost, escaped or dangerous Abnormals. 

“I know Barton can be an insufferable pain, but was stunning him really necessary, Stark?” 

Tony shoots him a dirty look, slinging one of Clint’s arms around his shoulders and stumbling upright, dragging the lycan’s limp body with him. Phil keeps a bland, poker face plastered on, easier to keep Tony guessing if he’s pissed off or just mildly amused when there’s not much to go on. 

The man steps forward, looping Clint’s other arm around his shoulders. They get him as far as the van before he stirs, mumbling incoherently. 

“Welcome back to the living, wolf-boy.” Tony pats his colleague on the head and retreats before Clint realizes what he’s done. 

Phil shakes his head, lowering Clint for him to sit on the floor of the van. “Self-preservation, Barton. Or do you not possess any?” 

Clint mutters something that sounds like ‘ _not in this lifetime_ ’, and would have earned him a stern rap over the knuckles if not for Natasha’s shout from somewhere behind the hulking mass of sinew and slimy tentacle. 

“We’ve got a problem.” 

Phil fixes Clint with a glare, pressing a bottle of water into his hands. “Sit down and don’t move.” 

The chances of Clint actually listening to that are slim, knowing how he behaves. Phil shuts one side of the van’s rear doors before striding over to join Natasha, leaving the groggy HAP leaning against one of the weapons boxes in the van. 

Natasha is standing over a figure that’s clad in a power suit and very much unconscious. 

She’d been hidden by the bulk of the Sorkel, which is why neither Clint or Natasha had seen her when the radial stun had gone off. 

Natasha crouches down beside the unmoving woman, fishing out a key-card from her jacket pocket and staring at it in the dim light. It’s got the name ‘Maria Hill’ printed neatly across and a familiar FBI logo right next to a photo of her. “She’s a psychiatrist. Maria Hill. Behavioral analysis unit from Quantico.” 

There’s a niggling feeling at the back of his mind, a flash of maybe recognition of the name. Then it hits him. 

He’s heard of her, of course he has. The brilliant kid from Quantico, stubborn as a mule and always digging deeper than anyone else but never taken seriously because of the insanely outlandish theories she would come up with. Never thought to go far because she’s always got a hand somewhere it shouldn’t have wandered to. 

Phil pulls his phone out of his jacket pocket, tossing it over to Natasha. “Get her back to Central for treatment and contact Nick. I want Foster to check Clint out as well, this is the third stunner incident in a week.” 

However this ends, SHIELD’s head psychiatrist has a feeling that it won’t be pretty. 

\-- 

Nick Fury is furious, pun completely unintended, even if the single eye doesn’t show it. 

The phone is slammed back down on its cradle, Fury muttering something about irresponsible network agents and FBI who don’t know any better. It doesn’t help that the team had come in about five minutes ago with a boxed up Sorkel and one of the problems itself, the single FBI profiler who somehow had the idea to follow a group of trained professionals into danger. 

One of the internal-server video screens flickers to life, Coulson’s features coming into view. “The Sorkel is being transported down to its new home, but there’s one other thing.” 

It’s the tone in Coulson’s voice that makes Nick groan, scrubbing at his face. “What now?” 

“You’re going to want to see this, sir.” 

Fury glances over to the screen. The transmission is coming from the medical bay, judging from the white sheets and sterile equipment behind Phil. There’s a single figure lying on a cot in the far corner with an IV in her arm. 

He takes a second look as Phil steps aside. It’s a face that he never expects to see again, let alone within SHIELD walls.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me. Maria Hill is involved?” 

\-- 

Her head feels as if it’s been hit with a fire extinguisher. It’s a dull, throbbing pain that refuses to fade, a rock concert at the back of her brain. 

Maria forces herself to sit up and stare at her surroundings. 

It isn’t an ordinary hospital, not as far as she can tell. The walls are metal and glass instead of the whitewashed cement of a conventional hospital, no permeating scent of antiseptic that she can detect. 

The door opens, and Maria holds back a shriek as a tall, broad-shouldered humanoid steps in, a tray held between huge hands, if she can call them that. His hair is clean, obviously taken care of, golden fur on the back of his hands neatly trimmed.

“Easy, Miss Hill.” A slim figure steps between her and tall, blond and scary, a petite brunette with long hair framing her face. She’s wearing a lab coat, no name tag that Maria can see, but there’s a stethoscope tucked away in the front left pocket. An ink smear along her right sleeve cuff tells Maria that the woman is right-handed, but possibly ambidextrous given the faded blue marks on her other sleeve. 

Maria’s eyes narrow, flicking between the young woman who looks like a doctor and the figure behind her who is obviously not human. “Where am I?”

Behind them, the door clicks open softly. 

“You’re in SHIELD’s medical facility, Miss Hill.” 

Everyone in the room spins around at the sound of Fury’s voice, instinctively stepping back to reveal the black-clad man. The man is an imposing presence, even though he’s nowhere near the blond creature’s height or bulk, standing in the open doorway of the infirmary. 

Maria blinks. 

Well, this can’t be real, since that is Nicholas Joseph Fury standing there, in the flesh and as real as real gets. 

She’s aware that she’s gaping, because this man is a legendary figure in history. 

He’s been involved with the Howling Commandos in World War Two and a dozen other covert operations that she’s never managed to get access to, despite her attempts to bribe a colleague two ranks up. This is the man who’s run in the same group as Winston Churchill and Franklin Roosevelt (Maria’s seen the grainy images) and, if her maths haven’t failed her, is now over a hundred years old. 

Which should be impossible, because no human being can live that long, and that’s assuming that Fury is only a hundred. 

He looks as if he hasn’t aged a _day_ , brown hair streaked with white and greying a little at the temples. 

Maria grins, because the theory that had nearly gotten her thrown out of the FBI is true. Nick Fury is alive, and it doesn’t matter how much the Bureau and everyone in the White House try to cover it up because the man himself is standing right in front of her. 

Behind him, someone wanders in, a high-tech rifle slung over his shoulders and twirling what looks like a glowing cartridge. 

“Hey Nick, I’ve tested the stun rifles like you asked and-” The newcomer trails off when he realizes the whole room’s attention has shifted from their patient to him. “Well, shit.” 

The blond humanoid huffs, something that sounds a little like a laugh, breaking the obvious tension that has permeated the room. Beside Maria’s bed, the doctor has started to detach the IV from her arm, movements precise but gentle, smiling at her companion’s short laugh. 

“Don’t let Clint or Thor startle you. It takes a little practice to get used to them both in the same day.” The IV slides out, and the doctor beams, sticking a smiley-faced band-aid over the spot where she’d extracted the needle. 

There are so many questions that Maria wants to ask, but she settles for the simplest one from the list. “What is this place?” 

Nick smiles, the action looking a lot more like a baring of teeth despite the slight warmth in his single eye. 

“It’ll be much easier to show you.” 

Maria doesn’t doubt the sudden weight that settles in her gut for a moment. The manic grin that the brown-haired newcomer has doesn’t help one bit either. 

There’s a redhead perched on a huge box when they get to the lobby. Maria nearly jumps when the box rocks once, but the woman just shrugs and continues tapping away at her phone, completely unaffected by the fact she’s sitting on top a box that’s holding something that’s obviously alive, if the fragile stickers on the side are to be believed. 

Maria only remembers two of their names, Clint and Thor. She isn’t quite sure who’s who though, the brown-haired rifle-toting man with a cocky grin and the tall blond who obviously isn’t human and whose grin really, _really_ scares her. 

She hasn’t seen this other woman before, this self-assured redhead who looks more like a gymnast or a ballerina but clad in leather and denims with a gun sitting right at home on her hip. Maria can’t quite tell her nationality from looks alone, but from what she can see the woman is clearly athletic, and dressed for ease of movement. The dark, form fitting outfit betrays little else, the woman’s expression obscured by the curtain of flame red hair that she hasn’t bothered to tie back.

Fury doesn’t stop to make small talk, instead he strides right past her and to a large, almost cavernous chamber lined with glass panels and a complicated system at the centre. 

Maria follows, trying to ignore the sense of scrutiny that’s coming from somewhere behind her. 

“You may have heard of us, Miss Hill, given your tendency to attempt to access files not of your security clearance.” He turns, resting a hand against the console, and Maria can’t shake the feeling that he can see right through her. “We are an agency dealing with events outside the realm of human comprehension and understanding.” 

Maria has heard of SHIELD. There isn’t much data that government agencies don’t keep, but the encryption on those databases is locked away behind barely penetrable firewalls that Maria can’t even begin to scratch the surface. All she had turned up was a logo of a stylized eagle, and a blood-red access denied flashing on the screen. 

Whatever SHIELD is, it’s well protected and highly classified. As if they want to keep themselves a secret. 

She watches as Nick keys in a sequence on a keyboard with characters that she’s never seen before. 

The nearest glass panel flickers and starts to fade, frosted glass giving way to clarity. There is something inside, Maria realizes. She spots movement in the foliage, something that glares at her with gleaming orange eyes as it slinks out into the open. It’s almost six feet long, like a sleeker version of a hedgehog with rows and rows of quills laid flat on its back and muscled legs ending in wicked claws. 

Maria jumps back as the creature presses up against the glass, watching her intently. “What in the world is that?” 

“Hela is a Jessaped, usually harmless until provoked.” Nick smiles almost indulgently before returning his attention to the console. 

The rest of the glass panels start to clear around them and Maria’s eyes widen. There’s a mermaid at the far end, swimmingly serenely amidst what looks like a replica of the sea floor, a creature which resembles a cross between dog and rabbit, and a scorpion that is far too large to actually exist in reality. 

“This place exists to house Abnormals that seek shelter, or are too dangerous to be let out into society. I believe you’ve also encountered our latest acquisition,” a tentacle slams against the glass panel as it clears, and Maria stares at it, fascinated, “the Sorkel that had been roaming around feeding on stragglers who intrude on its turf.” 

The realization hits Maria like a ton of bricks. It explains everything: the unidentified substance that they’d found at every crime scene, the untouched wallets and purses, and the broad range of victims. 

Not that anyone at the Bureau is going to believe that a thing with five-feet long tentacles actually exists. 

“So those people,” she makes a vague gesture towards where she hopes is the general direction of the infirmary. “You wrangle monsters?” 

“It’s wiser not to call them by that name, Miss Hill.” A man clad in a suit emerges from a door at the end of the room, a tablet balanced on his arm. “Some of them are particularly sensitive to that term.” 

True enough, the mermaid is scowling (or at least Maria thinks she is) through the rippling waves in the tank. 

The suit-clad man walks over, extending a hand. “Phil Coulson. SHIELD external liaison and resident psychiatric head.”

Maria gapes for the second time in the same day, reaching out to grasp the man’s hand on autopilot. She’s heard of him as well, the head of the BAU before he’d gone into PTSD counselling. Then he’d dropped off the face of the planet with no further news, and rumor had it that he might have been taken by insurgents somewhere in Afghanistan. 

“Secondly, Miss Hill. Try not to take any of those paranormal spook-show you’ve been watching as a basis. Most vampires don’t burn in sunlight nor are they descended from Dracula, there are no werewolves in England because most of them are no longer in Oldham and yes, werewolf sightings are generally true.”

Phil’s expression hasn’t changed a bit even while rattling off all of these tidbits of information, despite the fact Maria is probably staring at him like he’s got two heads. 

A chuckle echoes off the walls behind her, and the brown-haired man she’d seen earlier walks up to stand next to Phil. The man grins, baring canines that are too long to be completely human. “I’m not from Oldham, just so you know. I’m not even British!” 

Phil reaches over and swats the back of the younger man’s head. “Stop scaring the guest, Clint.” 

Now she’s got a name to the face, which means the blond one earlier must be Thor. 

It takes her a moment to fully realize the underlying meaning of what the man has said. 

Thankfully, Maria is saved from actually having to come up with an answer to that when an alarm sudden goes off, flooding the room with flashing red lights. Clint cringes, scrambling to the nearest computer terminal with Phil close behind just as a new face pops up on the screen. It’s one that she doesn’t expect, considering how there had been dozens of articles about infamous Tony Stark, playboy son of an eccentric millionaire.

“Hey shell-head, what have we got?” 

Tony makes a face at Clint. “We may have something interesting. Sending coordinates to you now.” 

Maria turns to face the other two men in the room, but neither of them notice her confusion. It’s obvious that this isn’t the first time something like this has come up and that they’re all seasoned professionals at work. 

“We’ve got another hit on the lycan tracking system Tony set in place since the Oldham institute went down. NYPD’s called in an assault but the perp’s disappeared from the twelfth story. He climbed out the window and vanished into thin air.” Clint looks up from where Tony’s face is reflected on the other screen. “I think it’s the same guy.” 

It reminds Maria of an old case that had gone cold years ago after their suspect’s lab went up in flames. 

Fury’s single eye narrows, exchanging looks with Coulson. “Send her top-side. I don’t want a civilian involved if things go sideways.” 

Maria makes a sound of protest as the redhead she’d seen earlier suddenly appears beside her. “I’ve seen something like this before, in one of the old cold case files.” She speaks quickly. “We came up with a partial profile which changed every time a new attack happened, but with all the inconsistencies we could never link it to our suspect. We raided one of his supposed labs, but one of the gas canisters in the lab took a hit thanks to an over-eager sergeant. Three wounded, and he vanished into thin air.” 

Clint barks out a laugh as he assembles weapons from a storage box with surprising dexterity. “You blew up his lab.” 

Maria feels slightly embarrassed because it’s not like her agency meant to.

Phil shakes his head, retrieving another stunner from the crate in between Clint’s efforts to hand him one. “Take her with you. Leave her at the nearest hospital if you need to. And find the lycan before he injures anyone else.” 

Fury nods. “Gentlemen, you’re up.” 

The next thing Maria knows, the woman’s hand has closed over her arm in a vice-like grip, leading her through one of the many corridors that look exactly identical. Clint is somewhere behind them, he scuffs his boots against the floor and it gives him away, along with the muffled whistling he does and the jangling of something that sounds like keys. 

“Hey Natasha,” and the red-haired woman slows down a little as she glances over her shoulder. At least now Maria has a name to call her, instead of just ‘the woman with red hair’. “Think this is really one of them?” 

Natasha smiles just a fraction in reply. 

The corridor opens up into a vast hangar that leaves Maria gaping as her two companions herd her aboard the jet at the far end. Everything about this place and its people seems to resist convention, down to the fact that the building Maria had thought she was in is actually a huge ship floating serenely off the New York coastline. 

She stares at the outline that’s getting smaller in the distance as the jet skims just above building rooftops. She’s pulled out of her thoughts by the sound of the rear ramp lowering. 

Maria looks up to see Clint grinning, the wind making his hair spike up in twenty different directions. It might just be a trick of the light, but for a second she swears that the man’s blue eyes have just turned several shade brighter. 

She doesn’t get the chance to confirm it because the man simply takes a running leap out of the jet. They’re not far from their landing zone, but definitely high enough to be damaging to any of them. 

Beside her, Natasha shakes her head before walking over to where Clint had jumped out. For a moment Maria thinks that the woman is going to, but her body posture isn’t the same, no bunched muscles preparing to break her fall. 

The pilot gives them the all clear almost ten seconds later, and Maria is given her first experience of rappelling down from a hovering jet and into the heart of Central Park. 

Clint is grinning, lounging on a bench nearby when the two women step out of the jet. He jogs over when they step foot onto solid ground, immediately earning a smack to the back of the head from Natasha while Maria disentangles herself from the gear. The grin on his face remains completely unapologetic. 

Something loud and insistent begins to beep in his pocket and Clint pulls it out. Both Natasha and Maria peer over his shoulder to look at the screen even though Maria doesn’t understand a damn thing on it. 

“Central Park’s been evacuated but this guy’s moving quickly. Heat signature consistent with a level nine HAP.” There’s a hopeful look in the man’s eyes that Maria wonders about.

Natasha holds her hand out. “Your call.” 

Maria notices something hard and wild and feral light up in the man’s eyes as the color shifts, flicking from honey brown to emerald green. It’s the look of something that isn’t completely human rearing its head under the guise it wears. 

The sound of a vest being unzipped draws Maria out of her thoughts. Clint is standing there in front of them without his vest on. The clothing is in Natasha’s hands and weapons tucked into a bag at his feet. Maria notes the old, faded ink on his shoulder that vanishes behind the waistband of his pants, possibly something from a gang but it’s nothing that she’s ever seen before from any database. 

She can’t help but stare, because his arms are definitely not the only part of him that’s well-toned. 

Clint lifts the radio, ignoring Maria very obviously checking out the rest of him. “All units, surround the park and set up Tony’s latest toy. Don’t let him get out, but don’t harm him.” 

Then his features shift, his mouth elongating outwards and pupils dilating into slits. Those longer-than-normal canines lengthen into fangs as Maria watches, half-fascinated and half-horrified at the sight of human skin growing a layer of thick, almost shaggy brown fur as the bipedal wolf sheds its human skin. 

Clint Barton is an actual werewolf. A growl slips out when he stretches, brilliant green eyes coming to focus on her. 

_There is a person under all that_ , Maria tells herself, even though she admits to being a little terrified inside. Every single detail she’s ever known about werewolves flash through her mind despite Coulson’s warning to never take those shows as basis.

Natasha laughs at the growl, reaching over to rub a bare hand over the wolf’s- no, Clint’s snout, making the creature huff. Maria is suddenly reminded of the pet dog her neighbour once had, this incredibly fierce-looking Rottweiler who would roll over and snuffle at her fingertips at the first opportunity. 

She’s just watched Clint turn into a wolf and already she’s comparing him to an over-friendly assault dog. 

Natasha wraps a strap around Clint’s wrist. “He’s headed towards the East corner, near the reservoir. We’ll circle around and cut him off. If he is what we all think he is, chances are he hasn’t learnt how to properly control it, but we’ve got tranq shots just in case.” 

Oldham is a myth these days, with few of their kind actually suppressing the transformation. Most of them live in the city and most know how to control it, but there is the occasional adopted child who never learns his heritage and reads far too much crap werewolf literature. 

Clint makes a face the best he can, given the fact he’s got a snout and a mouth full of sharp teeth. He takes off without a sound disappearing out of sight in a matter of seconds.

Maria wonders about the world Nick Fury lives in, and if every single day is like this.

\-- 

There are broken branches and scattered leaves all along this side of the Park, which makes Clint’s job much easier. He loves and hates the Park at the same time; the myriad of smells sometimes confuse him and pigeons never go near him, but he loves the peace that falls over the place in the middle of the night. 

Clint pauses, glancing left and right. The trail of damage leads straight ahead, but he’s familiar enough with the park to know that that goes straight out to the water. 

His bones creak as Clint shifts back to human form, lifting the wrist-mounted comm to his face. “Hey Tony, any real-time sat images that you can access?” 

The tech genius on the other end snorts derisively. “Are you honestly asking me this?” 

Clint chuckles in reply. “Pull up the corner right beside the reservoir. See if you can spot anything from the air. Coordinate check on Alpha team?” 

“Coming around the corner now. You should see them in a few minutes.” 

Something rustles behind him, making the lycan spin around, instinctively extending his fangs. There’s a scent on the breeze, a whiff of singed fur, and something else, something familiar yet different, something tainted that sets Clint’s senses on edge. 

His wristband pings. “Barton?” 

Clint would answer, if it weren’t for the fact that something almost twice his size has charged out of the trees, barreling straight for him. He’s got barely enough time to push his body to transform, hands halfway formed into claws when a huge black form tackles him into a line of trees. 

His half-formed response to Tony comes out as a fully-fledged roar.

Natasha seems to have heard it too because she comes skidding around a corner, Maria close behind. Clint can smell and hear them both but he’s too busy keeping this other creature’s claws away from his face to actually acknowledge his friend and fellow agent. This HAP is similar to him from what Clint can see, with similar physiology but a far larger build and bright green eyes clouded by rage. Clint is pretty broad-shouldered and muscular, given all the physical training he’s put himself through and it shows in his lycan form, but this other black-furred stranger is almost twice his size.

Clint’s blood sings at another lycan. Except this one is now trying to kill him. 

“Clint!” A shot from the stunner whizzes over his head, but the other lycan pinning Clint down isn’t even fazed. 

It roars and Clint snarls back, fangs fully bared. His claws find purchase in the attacker’s fur, sharp points digging in as he attempts to shove the heavier lycan off him. He’s aware of the blood that’s started to seep out of the puncture points his claws have made, but the lycan isn’t even affected, like it can’t feel pain. 

Behind them, Natasha fires off another stunner. 

This time it distracts the lycan enough for Clint to shove him off, rolling to his feet the minute his attacker’s weight is off him. But the stunner doesn’t do anything else, much to their surprise - Clint can smell Natasha’s shock rolling off her in waves - because Tony had calibrated this particular set to harmlessly subdue beings sharing Clint’s physiology. 

Whatever they’ve just encountered, it isn’t a normal Lycan. 

Natasha lifts her gun and fires two more tranquilizer darts into Clint’s attacker, the darts embedding themselves into its shoulder. It only makes the black-furred lycan roar again, but this time it goes after the new threat, crossing the distance and headed straight for the flame-haired woman. 

“Tasha!” It comes out as a warbled roar, laden with warning and worry. 

He’s halfway there when Natasha pushes Maria out of the way, dodging under the lycan’s first blow. It has strength and raw power, but it obviously hasn’t learnt to control it, instead the creature is fumbling and lashing out blindly. 

Clint has never appreciated Natasha’s fluid grace any more than this, watching her dance out of range of the lycan’s claws. She fires off another shot, the rest of Alpha team hovering just within firing range but holding back because the green lights on their lasers keep flickering over one of their immediate superiors. 

Then the lycan lashes out, clawed hand catching Natasha’s side with enough force to slam her against a tree. She doesn’t cry out, but the bloody gouges speak for themselves as she slides down. She clutches her side, crimson seeping through the gaps between her fingers. 

Clint roars, making his anger clear, and launches himself straight at the black-furred beast, claws sinking into its shoulders. Out of a corner of his eyes he sees Maria help one of the tactical support staff drag Natasha away for medical treatment, the red-head gritting her teeth in pain that she doesn’t want to show. 

In that one moment of distraction, one of those huge, plate-sized paws slams into Clint’s jaw, making him yelp in pain and retreat involuntarily, hackles raised as he snarls, trying to intimidate the bigger wolf. 

This doesn’t look like a fight they can win, not if their tranquilizers and sonic stunners are doing absolutely nothing to the creature. 

Clint forces his vocal chords to change, enough to make his growls more audible to the members of SHIELD who don’t frequently talk to his lycan form. “Tony!” 

A clatter of keyboards and other technological pieces answer him. “What the fuck happened?” 

“Put Nick on the line, something’s wrong with this guy!” His voice is rough and barely recognizable, but thankfully Tony can still recognize him. Or he’s written a program to automatically translate whatever Clint says into coherent speech, the HAP doesn’t know (and doesn’t quite care at the moment). 

A fist comes out of nowhere, just as Fury’s and Phil’s voice crackle through the now static-laden comm. 

Clint never manages to hear what’s said. The clawed fist connects with his gut in an explosion of pain that makes him whimper, vision swimming from the sensory overload as he’s sent flying. He’s vaguely aware of something wooden shattering as he hits it - a tree, if he had to guess. 

\--

Maria watches in shock as Clint impacts one of the trees, sliding down to slump at the base, lupine features starting to fade as his attacker advances. She has to do something, even if these are people she barely knows and probably shouldn’t get involved in. 

Her foot steps on something as she takes a step forward and Maria looks down. There’s a gun, probably Natasha’s, lying right there at her feet. 

It can’t possibly be that different from those target practice moments at Quantico, she thinks as she picks it up. 

The first shot goes wide, but the second hits the wolf square in the back. It makes him growl, landing on all fours to pace towards her as she puts another three darts into his arm (or at least, where a human’s arm would be), shoulder and hip. All non-lethal, not that she has to worry, considering that this gun only fires tranquilizer darts. 

The growl dies into a whine, and Maria takes a deep breath before stalking forward, gun clutched in her hand. It can’t be harder than talking down her neighbour’s dog, if said dog was actually about six feet tall. 

“You’re not here to hurt them, are you?” Maria gestures in the general direction of where Natasha had been spirited away and where Clint is now lying semi-conscious against a tree. It’s a realization that strikes her because the wolf is now prowling around, hackles raised and teeth bared at the handful of soldiers surrounding them. 

Werewolf or not, it boils down to a simple, oft-forgotten idea. The idea that any creature, if cornered, will fight back. 

Maria lowers the gun, watching the wolf follow the action intently. If memory serves correctly, grey wolves are creatures that clash over territory, and while she isn’t quite sure if the same rules apply humanoid wolves, it might explain why the black lycan went for Clint first. 

She drops the gun and kicks it away. “Easy. Calm down, okay?” Maria holds her now-empty hands out in front of her, trying to placate the hulking beast in front of her. “You’re scared, and suddenly there are people with guns hunting you down. Hurting you.” 

Maria takes a step forward. It’s an insane risk, but she’s hoping that it’s not just fear and anger in the lycan’s eyes that she’s seeing. 

“It was you, wasn’t it? 71st Broadway, Caiera Oldstrong, a break-in somewhere at midnight but nothing was taken.” Maybe it’s a trick of the light, but she thinks there’s a flicker of guilt-pain-anguish in the lycan’s bright green eyes. Maybe the names of these assault victims are really getting to him, and it spurs her on. Everything is clicking into place now, the victims and their acquaintances, the person that no-one had thought to look at. The supposedly deceased man that all the victims had known. 

“Fifth Avenue. Her name was Jennifer Walters, a criminal defense lawyer from LA. Halfway through a redacted case-file when the assault happened. But you already know that, don’t you?” 

The lycan crouches a little lower, ears flicking around uncertainly. 

At the base of the tree, Clint stirs just a little, a soft groan escaping his lips. There’s a trickle of red against his tanned skin but nothing that would indicate more serious injuries. She lets out a breath and starts to stall for more time. There are a few more names Maria remembers from those case files. 

“Tyrone Cash, at Hanover Square. Samuel Stern.” Maria pauses for a moment, trying to remember the last name. “Betty Ross.” 

She doesn’t expect the lycan to let out a bone-chilling howl when the last name is mentioned, as if the mere mention of it brings back some deeply buried pain that the human mind of the black-furred wolf remembers.

“I didn’t-” It comes out as a rumble, words distorted by changing vocal chords. “Didn’t mean to do it, I-” 

It’s a slow process, but Maria can start to see the beginnings of a change. The creature’s black fur is slowly receding, fading to expose pale, human skin. It takes a few seconds for the whole transformation to complete, leaving a nude human crouched amongst leaves and fallen twigs with dirt on his hands and feet and a couple of tranquilizer darts sticking out of his side. 

Maria counts to three before taking a step forward, only to have the man let out a groan and topple over, sprawling face-first onto the ground. 

Everyone explodes into motion around him. 

Two of the medics who had bundled Natasha out of the way quickly sweep past, headed straight for Clint. Maria however, is still studying the man lying there unconscious; he looks familiar, as if she’s seen him before while still at Quantico, not in person but from some publication that she no longer remembers. 

Then it strikes her. His hair is longer now, a little unkempt and he’s sporting week-old stubble, but Maria remembers.

Bruce Banner. Specifically, Doctor Bruce Banner. 

Behind her, Clint approaches, Natasha leaning against a shoulder. Neither of them look to be in tip-top condition; Clint has a rapidly purpling bruise on his forehead and a multitude of lacerations on his forearms, and Natasha’s side is bandaged.

Natasha takes a look at the man and then her gaze drifts to Maria. “You know him?” 

“His name is Bruce Banner. He went missing in Tibet about a month ago after a radiation accident in his lab. We all assumed that he was killed, but apparently he’s alive.” One of the medics hand Maria a blanket, and she drapes it over Banner’s shoulders. Compared to the sheer size of the black lycan that he had been, Bruce is a man of average height and build, looking much smaller and more forlorn lying there on the ground. 

Natasha nods to one of the black-clad SHIELD agents. “Keep him sedated, but don’t cuff him.” 

They watch in silence as the doctor is lifted onto a stretcher by the remaining medics and wheeled to a nearby unmarked white van. Judging from what she’s hearing from Clint and Natasha, Phil will come up with something, or Fury will assign their FBI contact to bury the incident under a pre-fabricated cover story. It would explain why no-one ever seems to hear about these things. 

“Wonder what it’ll be this time?” Clint stares at the mess they’d made of Central Park. “Maybe another Hollywood filming in progress?” 

Natasha snorts. “We used that last week.” 

She glances over to where Maria is standing. It’s the woman’s first time out on the field where Natasha and Clint play on, and she’s got absolutely no experience, but yet she’s managed to calm an enraged werewolf. Most people would have fled in fear (even Natasha admits to being a little on edge when Clint had first transformed), but Maria had managed to see the connection that they’d missed. 

Clint huffs, breath warm against her neck. He’s listing a little, possible concussion if she had to guess, but there’s an alertness in his eyes. 

A black Acura pulls up in front of them, with Thor at the wheel. He frowns at the sight of the carnage and at Natasha’s bloodied side and the lattice of scratches on Clint’s arm.

“Hey big guy,” Clint manages as they deposit him into the front seat.

Maria finds herself getting bundled into the back seat, alongside Natasha, wide-eyed at the fact that the car is now being driven by the same blond humanoid she’d seen earlier in the infirmary. She’s not quite sure which she should be more terrified of, the fact that he can drive, or that he is driving; his hands are huge and look as if they can easily tear the steering wheel off. 

“Home,” Thor rumbles, and Maria finds herself joining in the tired chorus of agreements from both Clint and Natasha. The adrenaline from facing and talking down an abnormally large werewolf is only beginning to wear off and she can feel the exhaustion starting to slowly seep through her bones. 

She dozes off to the sound of the radio playing some country tune and Clint and Natasha’s voices discussing stunner effects on possibly irradiated protean-lifeforms. 

\-- 

“She _is_ brilliant, you’ll have to admit.” Phil is standing on the tarmac at one of New York’s heliports beside SHIELD’s contact at the FBI. Captain Steve Rogers is an old friend of an old friend of Fury’s and one of the very few who know that the man is still alive. He is also an ex-colleague of Phil’s and an Abnormal himself, even though the Bureau has no idea. 

“I’m going to be honest, sir. She is, but her talents may be better suited to your field of work.” Steve doesn’t need to mention all the shadows that are currently hanging over Maria’s career at the Bureau. 

It’s common knowledge that Maria had offended some pretty high-ranking people while on her quest to dig up one of the oldest kept secret of the United States.

Steve sighs slightly, glancing over to where SHIELD’s car is supposed to arrive any minute now. Coulson doesn’t say a word, instead he pulls out a thin file and holds it out right in front of Steve. 

The blond flicks it open. He’s used to these little dossiers by now, the ones that he takes out to the harbor and burns after every cover-up. “I thought we used the Spielberg excuse last week, with the Steno?” 

Phil doesn’t move, eyes on the gate. “Nick wanted something believable. Besides, I’m sure Whedon and Gilroy won’t reject the publicity they’re getting.” 

A wide smile spreads over Steve’s features. 

“And the HAP?” 

Steve never gets an answer, because one of SHIELD’s black Acuras chooses that moment to come skidding around the corner, making him jump. Phil sighs; Thor might have months of driving exposure (on the Helicarrier hangar, in a designated course), but he’s still a terror on any normal road in New York city and SHIELD gets a complaint letter from the traffic department on the number of times a Thor-driven car has nearly gotten into trouble. 

Clint is the first to emerge, looking a shade of slightly-nauseous, trailed closely by Natasha. 

Phil is beside them in a heartbeat. His eyes narrow a fraction at the sight of dried blood and the pieces of bark sticking to Clint’s hair and the neat but bloodied bandage on Natasha’s side. 

“Home?” Clint sounds a tired but hopeful even as the words getting drowned out by the roar of engines as the Quinjet begins its descent onto the tarmac. 

Phil nods. 

\-- 

Dusk finds Maria standing on the heliport, gazing out at the sunset silhouetted buildings of New York as the Quinjet takes off. Fury’s words still ring clear in her mind, the offer he had made while watching SHIELD agents secure a still-unconscious Doctor Banner for transport. The card is heavy in her pocket, even if it is just a piece of printed paper with a logo and a phone number etched neatly onto the white surface. 

By all counts, it’s been one of the stranger days of her life, encountering not one, but two werewolves, a mermaid, a sentient octopus, and an over-sized porcupine.

“It’s not something you’d expect, is it?” 

Maria turns to see Steve Rogers coming to a stop beside her. She remembers him, worked with him once. He had been one of the kinder ones who didn’t outright doubt her outlandish theories about crimes being of a extraterrestrial origin. 

Now she knows why. 

Maria shakes her head. “It all seems incredible somehow, having the actual confirmation that monsters,” she corrects herself, “Abnormals like these are real.” 

A smile crosses Steve’s face as the older agent rests a broad hand against her shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “There are such things as monsters, Maria. Think about Nick’s offer.” 

She knows what Fury is offering. A place where her theories won’t be mocked, where she might just fit in a little better. A place amongst unseen heroes. 

The sun has almost disappeared below the horizon by now, last streaks of red-orange-violet painting the skyline, and the Quinjet is nowhere to be seen. 

Maria looks up at the first hints of black that’s started to spread across the sky, and thinks that she has her answer. 

\-- 

“Director Fury?” Phil is standing at the entrance to Nick’s office, folder in one hand. “Maria Hill is on the line.” 

Maria’s voice is a little distorted by the static of a long-distance call, but recognizable nonetheless even though it’s been two days since he’d last spoken to her. 

“Miss Hill.” 

Phil doesn’t catch what Nick says, standing quietly at the door. Instead he watches as Fury exchanges words with the FBI agent, watches as the Director replaces the phone on its cradle, just in time for the ship’s alarms to go off. “What do we do, sir?” 

A predatory smile spreads across Fury’s face. “We get ready.”


End file.
